


Unbreakable

by xoxoxo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Sex, Derek Has Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Pain, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Violence, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoxoxo/pseuds/xoxoxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in the darkest corners of the world, there exists a ring in which the wealthy gather night after night to watch the wolves fight. A ring in which the unimaginable occurs. A ring in which money can buy anything - drugs, violence, sex. Everything has a price.</p><p>When Derek Hale is taken captive by the vicious and merciless leaders, he vows that he will not make it easy for them. He won't give in; to win the fight is to lose something greater -</p><p>But when every day, every hour, every minute of his life has become rife with agony, well... everyone has a breaking point, it's just a matter of finding it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Day 5

"Tonight, we have a very special event..." The announcer's voice was laced with intrigue and charisma. A hint of nervousness lie there too - a secret known only to the most astute. His arms spread wide, he turned, addressing the audience surrounding him.

Meanwhile, locked tightly behind the nearby bars, a man paced, pain shooting through his legs with every movement, as the crowd cheered beyond the line. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of the fight when the deepest fieriest pits of hell froze over.

He felt the growl rising in his chest and, his sanity (and his back) having been completely stripped raw after refusing to fight the previous night, he was unable to contain it. He was losing control.

He focused on the blank walls behind in front of him. This was what they wanted. This was why night after night he was starved, beaten. If he let go – if he fought – they would win.

He locked his jaw tight locked, a fresh wave of agony drowning out the sounds of the people -- the people who, as far as he could tell, had paid a small fortune to be there. Every muscle in his body wanted to fight the first thing that came close enough to him, but he held tight to the fraction of his spirit that hadn’t been broken. He refused to lose himself.

He paused, listening. His knuckles were white with his death grip around the metal. The crowd was bigger today. Nothing like the previous night. He could hear the constant thundering of hearts beating. The side-bets being placed. The laughter. The promises of things to come.

The smart ones bet against him. They held the grand majority, from what he could tell. Given his streak, they'd be crazy not to. Of course, here and there, he caught wind of the crazy. If he won, he’d make a handful of people very rich. And he’d eat. And he’d, perhaps, sleep in peace. If he won. He tried very hard not to care.

His fingers tightened on the bars and he rolled onto the balls of his feet, subconsciously (and rather futilely), aching to ease the pain. In his mind, he knew that regardless of how much weight he took off of them, his ankles weren't going to feel it any less. The wire cut into his flesh, blood trickling between his toes.

His eyes closed and he focused on breathing. In, out, in, out. He would not lay a hand against the other wolf. The announcer? If given the chance. His handlers? In a fucking heartbeat. But he refused to fail. He could do this. He wouldn't give in. He would not.

Without warning, a blinding pain shot through his legs. He just barely contained the scream that accompanied it, but he couldn't stop himself from falling to his knees, his palms digging into the ground. His forehead, laced now with sweat, and his cheeks wet with a combination of perspiration and tears, fell against the bars in front of him. Maybe his fate was already decided.

"Fuck," he stuttered in a whisper, pinching his eyes shut. He gasped for each breath.

If he shifted now, he might not have enough control when the gate went up.

_"Lose again, and I promise you, you will regret it." ___

The words repeated themselves in his head. If he won, if he tried to win, who knew what would happen? The idea of a warm bath, of a night alone, of sleep... He wanted it so desperately. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't die with a broken spirit. He would fight to the end, even if that meant not fighting at all.

His attention was drawn back to the announcement; the roaring audience, and, if he focused hard enough, the footfalls of the wolf beyond the opposing wall.

"At the south entrance, undefeated for an impressive five weeks straight, Number 37!"

His eyes rolled back a little, pain encompassing his body. He was not Number 37, and he was definitely not undefeated. He'd make quick work of this. He shouldn't be out there for more than a few minutes, and with any luck, the damage would be enough to knock him out for a few days. His body involuntarily began to change, and he bit it back.

He pushed himself up, and his pacing continued. Every step was a limp already -- what could they possibly even expect of him on this night? Had they given up on him? Execution. Was that what this was?

"And at the north entrance, a newcomer, competing for the fourth time --" The word competing was said with some humor. Derek swallowed, his eyes closed now. If he passed out, he wasn't sure that he'd fight. And if he didn't fight, then it'd be for nothing. "-- Is Number 49!"

Some of the crowd booed, jeered, laughed. He felt the tension of others, betting on the fact that he could be broken in the past 24 hours. The announcer disappeared. Blackness threatened his vision as he waited desperately at the gate --

"Fuck," he groaned again, just above a whisper. He looked around his cell desperately and bent over, clawing at the spot where the pain originated. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand, not yet.

Beyond the pain, he could hear familiar voices whispering. It sounded like screaming to his fractured mind, and desperately as he tried to tune it out, the words came through.

Things like, _what's taking so long? ___and, _he's not going to be standing much longer ___, echoed in his head, and he banged furiously on the bars that would lead to the ring. To the end.

He held tightly to the metal, letting his weight off of his feet, if only for a moment. He was losing himself, and he wouldn't. He couldn't. Winning this fight meant losing something much more important. A battle that would prove to be grander than any he could endure in any single ring. And if he lost control now, if he let instinct take over... However small the odds may be, if he let the wolf out... well, he knew the wolf wouldn't take it lying down.

Again, the shift threatened, his body's futile effort to preserve itself. His mind was splintering, the pain coming stronger now.

He coughed, deep red blood sputtering from his mouth. He felt his shoulders shaking, his knees.

As the pain reached his core, another groan escaped him, and as it did, he heard the first grinding of the gears turning.

He could see an inch of light coming from the bottom of the wall, then more, as the sound of the crowd grew louder. He could hold on. He could.

He cursed himself for his weakness and let his feet once more take his weight. It was only the adrenaline from the upcoming fight that kept him moving forward. To his death? Doubtful. His knees buckled and he started going down, just as that last strand of sanity was drawn from him. Just as the bars separating him from his opponent opened.

He couldn't afford to play around. He didn't have the time. If he let the fight go on too long, he'd lose all focus. He needed to go quickly, needed to lose quickly, to remove the opportunity to lose himself.

He limped out as his opponent charged, the light temporarily blinding him. He swallowed, his breath burning his throat. He scanned the audience, noting the worry in some of the faces. He could handle the beating that was sure to come when he went down.

He closed his eyes, taking in the cool air.

_"Only you can end this," the man had said, the sharp blade carving patterns across his shoulders. He could barely hear over his own screaming, but of course, barely was more than enough. "Win the fight, and it ends." The blade was dragged upward, cutting him to shreds. It was only hours earlier. "You can beat 37. He's nothing. And when you do, the pain will be over."_

With his eyes closed, he couldn't see the gap between them closing. He wondered how long they would keep him alive before they realized he was no good to them.

He had the strength of mind to hope it wouldn’t be too long.


	2. Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare I say this isn't everyone's cup of tea?

Day 1:

Derek caught himself on his palms after being thrown unceremoniously into the room. He closed his eyes, not yet adjusted to the bright lights, after hours upon hours of darkness.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, catching the various scents. 

He focused on breathing. Focused on anything but the pain racing down his spine at every movement. 

There had been wolves here. He wasn’t sure how many, or how long ago, because the smells all sort of melted together. But there had been a lot. 

Keeping himself very still, he opened his eyes, squinting.

There was not a lot to see in this room. 

The walls were dingy. 

The floor was stained, the concrete cracked here and there.

It led him to (perhaps foolishly) believe that he had a shot at escaping.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, he glanced around the entire perimeter of the room. His eyes wouldn’t focus right, but it was probably the wolfsbane running through his blood. It was unlikely that the beating that had been bestowed upon him had caused any lasting damage. 

He brought his left hand to the back of his neck -- the spot where the dart had hit him. 

The new wave of pain that the action created told him it was better to leave it. In a few hours, hopefully, the pain would abate. He just had to make it until then.

He heard the door open behind him, but couldn’t find the energy to turn and look.

He’d spent the last several hours in some sort of cage, laced impeccably with mountain ash. He’d felt the bumps in the road along the way, taking careful note of left turns, right turns, stops. Until the pain got to be too much and he’d closed his eyes, willing it away.

He couldn’t think well at that point, but with the change in environment, there was some clarity.

After a few closing footsteps, he felt cool fingers at the base of his neck. A deep, warning growl escaped him. His felt his muscles tighten all over his body, the surge of agony almost causing him to scream out. Almost.

“Easy,” came the voice, a man. Derek wanted to turn around. But he knew that every unnecessary movement would be debilitating, and until this man actually threatened him, he needed to keep it cool.

He consciously released the breath he held, forcibly relaxing the fists that were itching to strike.

Again, the fingers touched his neck, and again, Derek was hopeless against the growl that escaped him. 

Another set of footsteps. Not wolves. He could probably take them. 

As the second came in closer, he smelled the sickly sweet scent of wolfsbane. He felt his stomach tightening the closer it got. 

He realized what was about to happen a moment too late, but dove away regardless. The first man delivered a swift and well placed kick to his stomach, sending him sprawling on the ground. Derek felt the tears running down his face, heard the screams that were certainly coming from his body, but there was some disconnect. Like his brain wasn’t really understanding that this was being done to his body.

The first man pinned him to the floor, his knee pressing against Derek’s neck in a way that made the world turn white with agony. He couldn’t hear anything beyond his own screams now, and his brain was definitely getting it. His fingers clawed at the man’s leg, at anything they could reach, but he was unable to shift.

His arm was extended and he fought it with every bit of draining energy he had, because what else could he do? The second man had enough strength to smash his shoulder with just one stomp, but delivered three for good measure. 

Derek bucked wildly beneath them, but he was wrong before – he was no match for these men. Not with the drugs in his system.

His body shook fiercely as he tried in vain to pull his arm back in. He was pretty certain that he was begging and he despised himself for it, but he couldn’t stop.

Distantly, he felt the needle slide into his arm, and his body jerked, but he was pinned tightly. His eyes widened momentarily as the second man pushed in the plunger, before a pain so completely all-encompassing took over, and he was undone.

\---

When Derek awoke, he had no idea how long had passed. His memories were muddied, but vivid enough for him to realize that he wasn’t to take the situation lightly. 

He swallowed, opening his eyes and taking an account of his surroundings. The pain in his shoulder was constant and unrelenting, and the longer he stood there, the more it seemed to hurt. He lifted himself onto the balls of his feet, hoping to take away some of the weight. His wrists were strung above him as he, along with three other wolves, stood there naked, awaiting whatever fate lie.

From behind him he heard footsteps, but didn’t bother arching his neck to see. He remembered what the movements did to his body, and knew already that looking wasn’t going to help anything.

Still, when the wet sponge hit his back, his flinch (and accompanying howl) were extreme. He jerked away, ripping his shoulder to shreds in the process, and screamed a deep, cavernous scream that he didn’t even know he could make.

It didn’t even phase the person behind him.

He tried then to turn, to crane his neck and to see what was being done to him, but was unable, in the end. And so he closed his eyes, shaking in fear and in pain and in humiliation, as the sponge was run across his back. As his legs were forced apart and the sponge run between them.

Down his thighs, his calves. He couldn’t stop the shaking.

From behind, one hand wrapped around his waist, the male fingers running themselves across his abs. He felt his muscles tighten, pulling back. 

And in the next moment, the man’s other hand was running between his cheeks. Derek was uncertain how to react, but he realized in that moment that he had more fight left in him than he’d known.

He legs kicked out, his arms pulling hard against the restraints. In response, they only tightened, pulling him higher so his entire weight was on the tips of his toes and that broken shoulder.

The hand that was assaulting him returned, first one finger, then two, penetrating him. He bucked forward, arching his back away from his assailant, but the man held him tight, mirroring his actions. He could feel the fingers moving inside of him, just as he could feel the tears streaming down his face. 

The growls that reverberated from inside of him were more animal, more carnal, than anything the man had ever heard before, but still he continued. 

Eventually, and with a laugh, he extricated himself and retrieved the bucket. Derek gasped for breath, jerking on each restraint with everything that was in him. Still, they didn’t budge. 

When the man came to the front and looked Derek square in the eyes, Derek vowed to never forget that face. He locked his jaw as the sponge came first to his forehead, turning his head away instinctively. The man punched him, hard, but instantly took a softer hand to his cheek.

“Sorry,” he said, his first spoken words. The tone that he took indicated that he was not, in fact, sorry. When Derek did not look at him, he pulled back for another. This one was square on, and the first trickles of blood started spilling from his face. He coughed, closing his eyes. Again, the hand at his face caressed him, forcing his jaw one way then the other. Examining the damage. 

Seemingly satisfied, he continued, down his chest, his abdomen. Derek expected the assault that was sure to come and mentally prepared himself for it, but the man was methodical in his work, now. 

Derek breathed a sigh of relief when the man picked up his bucket and walked away. He didn’t yet know what lay behind those walls.

\---

What could have been hours later, a new man entered. This one, in a crisp black suit, walked differently than the rest. Derek took note of his flawless shoes, his white silk shirt, his black blazer. The gel in his hair, the energy in his eyes. This one was predatory in a way that the others hadn’t necessarily been. 

Derek put him at no older than thirty, lean muscle, athletic. 

“How much?” he asked, circling Derek. He hung hopelessly still, the pain in his shoulder long since becoming a throbbing sort of agony that he had learned to live with. He tried to follow the movements, but as the man walked behind him, he was left only imagining what was happening. 

“Two hundred,” came the response, although Derek wasn’t sure from whom. The scent wasn’t familiar, so he could rule out all of the men who had interacted with him so far. Which didn’t really help him, when all was said and done.

He circled back to the front, looking Derek up and down very slowly. In response, a low growl emanated from his chest. He didn’t bother trying to bite it back.

The man smiled, taking a step closer, removing his blazer and casting it aside. The threat palpable.

Derek held his eyes, his deep growl lowering. Warning. 

And then the man smiled wider, the most predatory, sadistic smile that Derek could imagine on such a business-man, and ran a single finger down Derek’s heaving chest.

He flattened his palm against his chest, feeling the growls that were coming from within the wolf. Derek knew he should have stopped himself, but he couldn’t. 

“His shoulder?” the man inquired, not breaking eye contact with Derek. 

“He’s been… disagreeable, so far. Nothing you can’t handle.”

“Indeed,” the man responded. He closed the distance between them so that their bodies almost touched, and prodded Derek’s shoulder with his thumb and forefinger.

Derek hissed in a breath before containing himself, forcing himself not to break eye contact. He wasn’t weak, and he wouldn’t let them write him off as such.

The man huffed out a chuckle and nodded, backing away.

“I’ll have my doctor examine him within the hour. Barring anything unusual, I’ll take him.”

And with that, Derek suspected that he was sold. 

\---

It took four hulking men to remove him from the restraints and get him to the new room, but the new room was impossibly more troubling than the previous. Inside lay a stainless steel table and a slew of instruments that Derek was certain would be used in every painful way possible. The men slammed him once, twice, three times onto the table before he couldn’t fight them anymore, his head ringing and his shoulder throbbing and his entire body screaming.

The cuffs at his arms and ankles locked tightly, a bright light above him illuminating the room. 

And then they left. And Derek lay there, scanning the table of instruments, unable to bring himself to stop looking. 

Stop. Looking. 

It wouldn’t do him any good. As the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours, Derek felt himself beginning to panic. He wouldn’t let himself go this easily.

He focused on breathing. He focused on the good (although he struggled to find it). He focused on the door, waiting for him to come in.

The doctor. 

He wondered if he was a real doctor or if that was some sort of torture-master’s nickname. He was certain he could handle a good deal more torture before his body gave out completely, but he couldn’t stop the panic that continued rising in his chest. 

When the door opened, a heeled woman came through. She smiled at him, closing the door behind her. She stood by the wall, eying each restraint carefully. Making certain he hadn’t slipped any? He hadn’t.

Then she removed her shoes and set them on the floor, smiling at him. She walked over confidently, not nearly as afraid of him as he was of her.

From the table, she opened a box of gloves, covering her delicate hands. Derek knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that those hands weren’t going to be kind to him. And he was right.

She began with his head, simple procedures that shouldn’t have been too unpleasant but somehow were. Looking at his pupils, his ears. Listening to his pulse. 

She ran her hands down his ribcage, feeling every bone. Nothing was broken, so it wasn’t all that bad. She seemed to be gentle, as gentle as she could have been, but he knew better than to let himself relax. 

She continued her examination and he let her, focusing on breathing. He found a spot on the ceiling and stared at it, as she took vials of his blood, his vital stats, his measurements. 

She didn’t say a word to him as she prodded his shoulder, eliciting a moan. He wasn’t sure he had any scream left in him. 

Two men brought in several machines and she hooked electrodes to his chest, his heart rate on display on the first. He kept his focus on the spot on the ceiling. It had to be over soon. 

She went lower, forcing her fingers into his rectum, twisting and turning and making him scream more. He felt tears pouring down his cheeks, felt blood oozing at his wrists and feet, and he concentrated very hard on stilling his body. This wasn’t the way. There had to be a better way, and if he could make it through this, he could work on finding it.

She took the gloves off and set them aside, replacing them with a clean pair and placing two new electrodes on his chest. She forced his mouth open and placed something inside, muffling his growls. Without warning, she pressed a button on the machine, and it immediately came to life.

The shock that ran through his body created a white hot pain in every single fiber of him, every muscle locked up, his teeth clamping down on that object and his eyes pinching shut and screams and screams and screams emanating from his core.

He arms and legs fought against the restraints and she held his head down, protecting it, as she observed the heart monitor. 

When she was satisfied, she stopped it, taking a tissue and wiping the tears from Derek’s face. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t… couldn’t be. 

She left then, left him lying there shaking, gasping, loose tears still rolling down his face. 

\---

He didn’t fight as the men came back, unlocking the restraints and wrapping his arms around himself, chaining them. They kicked him to the floor, then pushed him into a large metal cage, locking it up tightly behind him.

He didn’t know where he was brought, his eyes unable to open as he slumped against the bars, shaking. His arms, now wrapped around his core, offered him a false sense of protection, and he couldn’t help but be grateful for the new position. His shoulder didn’t feel quite so bad, and he could breathe again, which was improvement.

Eventually, they pulled him from the cage and threw him into a new one, really. It was a small room, maybe 8 feet long and 5 feet wide. They kicked his legs out from under him and scoffed as his fell, unable to catch himself on his hands. 

He lifted himself the best he could to vomit out everything left inside of his stomach. It was a mixture of all the events of the day. Tears, sweat, blood. He heaved and heaved until there was nothing left inside of him and then he dry heaved some more. 

And when his body had taken all it could, he fell back, pushing himself into the corner. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually, he slept.


End file.
